


Spellbound

by Griddlebone



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Sex, F/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6646186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griddlebone/pseuds/Griddlebone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the very last good thing from the world-that-was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spellbound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jungle_ride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jungle_ride/gifts).



He was the very last good thing in the world, of that Morgana had no doubt. Not Uther, not Arthur, not even Gwen had been able to keep from betraying her in the end. But Merlin, sweet Merlin… At the end of all things, Merlin had come to save her from herself, and in a way he had succeeded.

Morgana herself was saved.

But the world burned.

Burned, and _seethed_ with magic. What had once lain dormant and hidden now burgeoned, preparing to burst through a rime of ash and into glorious bloom.

Uther had tried to suppress the true nature of the world and impose his own corrupt sense of order instead. He would fail. Had failed.

Morgana's lips curled into a smile at the thought. One could not, after all, kill magic. Even the mighty Uther could only force it into hiding. But no longer!

Magic pulsed everywhere around her now, and not only within her castle stronghold, the place that had once been called Camelot. The veins of magic ran deep in the land, threading throughout Albion and beyond, perhaps through the entire world. With magic flowing free once more, Albion was twisting, changing. Or rather, _un_ twisting. Returning to what it once had been. To what it rightfully must be.

There was freedom in the surety that this was inevitable. Natural.

She strode from the echoing emptiness of her throne room, seeking Merlin and remembering. The agony of fighting what she was, of hiding, of pretending, of trying _so hard_ to be what she was not and could never be. The sudden aching shock of freedom when she finally threw off her shackles and embraced her true birthright.

Merlin, that day, come to plead with her to stop what he'd deemed madness. Cajoling, as only one of her own kind might. Speaking as a friend that knew the pain she'd endured, revealing his deepest secrets. Threatening, in the end and with a terrible strain in his voice, to do whatever was necessary to protect Arthur Pendragon. The glint of the blade in his hand, trembling.

The look in his eyes when she reached out and offered him freedom instead of death.

If only she had recognized sooner what he was. If only she had seen that his pain, so carefully hidden, was the same as her own, they might not have lost so much time in pretending.

For that alone, she had decided long ago, for inflicting such suffering upon this innocent and gentle man, the world deserved all that she had done and all that she intended yet to do.

He met her on the winding stair that led to the bedchamber they shared, stepping down as she came up, responding to the unspoken yearning she felt. He knew, as no one else did, just how fragile she was. And he knew, too, how desperately she needed to be loved. She had granted him this secret power over her because she knew that he alone would never use it.

He had set down his blade that day, so long ago, and he would never pick it up again.

She moved past him on the stair now, climbing just that bit higher, turning so that she stood above him. She exulted in the moment, taller and more imposing than him, asserting herself as she had not dared to do for so many long years.

There was only admiration, adoration, in his eyes when he looked up at her. She leaned down, closed the small distance between them, and kissed him hungrily. Her pulse quickened at the contact. The ache within her abated. She was not alone, after all. Was not alone and never would be again. No more would she stand on her own, the solitary figure of defiance.

Merlin pulled her closer, his hands fervent against her, heating her even through the fabric that clothed her. She could feel her breaths coming in ever more ragged gasps as desire and heat and magic coursed stronger and stronger through her.

Magic throbbed through the air around them. Neither made any attempt to hide or disguise it. Let the world know. Let the world try to stop them. They would destroy anyone that got in their way. The two of them, together.

Morgana pulled back, drawing deep breaths of air, exhaling Merlin's name. If he wondered what had brought this on, he did not ask. She loved him just a little more for it, her last good thing from the world-that-was.

His hands moved her, urging her to the side until her back was against the wall, one foot on a step and the other in the air. If not for his strength to support her, she would have fallen. She wrapped her arms around him and let him bury his face against her neck. His breath was warm, intoxicating, and did nothing to slow the racing of her pulse or dull her desire.

She wanted him _now_ , needed to feel that most physical and intimate of connections, and the reassurance only he could give her. But she had made of Merlin a lover and a partner, not a slave. She would not compel him to greater urgency or demand he do only that which pleased her, although she was perfectly capable of doing so. She could… but never with him.

So she let her head fall back to give him better access to the sensitive flesh of her neck, hooked her free leg around his waist, and clung to him as he slowly, slowly teased pleasure from the taut tension of her body. His lips formed words against her throat, but she felt no rush of fear. She knew he would not betray her. Body and soul, he belonged to her. And, more than that, he belonged to _magic_.

No, the words he whispered against her heated flesh were not spells but protestations of devotion. And her name: Morgana, Morgana, Morgana, over and over and over.

He moved his head lower, brushing those soft lips across the exposed skin at the neckline of her dress.

It was almost more than she could bear. She cupped his cheeks in both hands and drew him up to kiss her mouth, felt him smile against her lips. Yet when her hands slipped down, seeking the ties to his clothing, he caught them in his own and pinned them back to the wall with a chuckle, as if to say _not yet, my love._

Thwarted, she submitted —but only just— to the intolerable slow thoroughness of his kisses. She moved her hips against him, felt the proof of his own reaction to her, and despaired at his patience.

"Merlin," she murmured as he pressed a line of open-mouthed kisses along her jawline, moving toward her neck again. "Merlin, I need you." _I love you._

She felt his smile, felt the sharpness of teeth as he nipped at oversensitized flesh.

He knelt then, awkward on the uneven footing, releasing one of her hands so he could move her skirts out of the way, knowing she wore nothing underneath. The leg she had wrapped around his waist she now rested on his shoulder, giving him all the access he needed; the hand he had freed, she tangled in his hair.

For an unbearable time, he merely looked at her in the shadowed light. And then he leaned in to press his lips against her slickened flesh, tongue lapping at her very essence. That talented tongue, so useful for magic and for this. A year ago, she would never have guessed. And now…

Now she felt unmoored, off balance, precarious. As if the hand gripped so tightly in his was the only thing keeping her there and on her feet. As if she would be lost without him, devoured alive by hatred and magic.

Maybe she would be.

Maybe that was why he always drew it out for as long as he could.

Maybe that was why she let him.

He flung the tangled fabric of her skirt awkwardly aside with his free hand, using the fingers of that hand along with his mouth to tease her mercilessly. Her fingers gripped hard at his.

It was not merely pleasure that mounted as he slipped two fingers inside her, but magic. She could feel it spiraling out from their union in waves of power. The added sensation left her trembling all over even before her orgasm came crashing down over her. His fingers stroking inside her, curling at the pivotal moment as his lips and tongue worked her clit. She couldn't stop it then.

Some part of her ecstasy, she knew, escaped in a magical release as her whole body coursed with pleasure. Muscles tightening, tensing, and then releasing in bliss so forceful that she could not keep from crying out; each caress of his tongue against her clit sending another jolt through her until at last overwhelming excitement became quiet satisfaction.

For a few moments, all she could do was feel and breathe. The anguish of tormented memories was faded and distant, too far away to reach her. For a few moments, Morgana knew peace. And knew without a doubt why all this —all the pain, all the destruction— was worth it.

Merlin looked up at her with earnest eyes, seeking approval. She smiled gently, stroking his hair as encouragement.

His lips and chin were covered with her juices, the proof of their lovemaking.

"Come here, Merlin," she said. _Beloved._

He rose, not letting her fall, but not letting her move to a more stable position either. It was all she could do not to cling to him as he kissed her.

This time he did not stop her when she reached for his clothing, loosening the ties of the loose trousers he wore and drawing forth his manhood. She loved the feel of this part of him in her hand, the pulsing heat and hardness of physical lust, the potency of vulnerability, the sincere desire to please her in every way that he could.

She guided him into her with her free hand, relishing the soft sounds of pleasure he made as he entered her to the hilt. He always tried so hard to stay silent during their trysts, as if he feared that his more usual babbling might somehow embarrass him. She knew better, but she also knew that mere words could never convince him, and so she let him have his whispers and quiet moans and silences. That they could communicate _without_ words, with only their bodies and their magic, only made their joining all the more alluring to her.

Gentle fingers of magic caressed her all over as he entered her and began to move in soft, sure strokes. Though the bodice and sleeves of her dress prevented his hands from touching her skin, they were no barrier for his magic.

As he teased her inexorably toward a second orgasm, it occurred to her that perhaps his silence was as much for fear of losing control as it was for fear of embarrassment. Merlin's magic was nearly as powerful as Morgana's own, and could be extremely unpredictable when unleashed. While Morgana saw this as worthy of celebration, Merlin still found it disconcerting after years of hiding its power.

Perhaps that was it, after all, she thought, and knew she would never ask him.

He could not resist crying out at the end, as his own climax took him — thrusting deep and hard inside her several times, pulling her to him in a crushing grip, magic and power fairly pouring off of him.

She came only a few heartbeats later, coaxed and buoyed by magic, clinging, taking him as deep as she could, savoring the feel of their union. No matter how he tried to draw it out, their moments of bliss always seemed far too brief.

Afterward, she lay cuddled beside him, drowsing, his arm slung over her shoulder, her fingers intertwined with his. They were still in the stairwell, too well sated to consider moving just yet.

Merlin, ever modest, had already dressed. Morgana briefly considered adjusting the tangled fabric of her skirts, which remained pushed up to reveal most of her legs. Any of her bespelled servants might soon come through and see them thus.

In the end she decided against it. Let them see. Let the whole damn world see.

With Merlin at her side, nothing could stop her from righting Uther's wrongs.

Beyond her castle's walls, people might cower in fear, might flee from death's daily assaults and the unsettling, changeling power of the magic Morgana had loosed upon Albion. But once the world had burned and the ashes had settled, a new world would arise. A better world. A world in which she and Merlin need not be outcasts, but could live as they were meant to: openly, powerfully.

The thought of that future made it all worth it.

And anyone who disagreed, Morgana thought, her rage igniting anew, could burn.


End file.
